


Ginger, At Last (But Still Rude)

by Soledad



Series: The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord [1]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Gen, Ginger At Last (But Still Rude), The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord, Time Lord Mycroft, Time Lord Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the last incarnation of the Doctor, and he's stranded on Earth with a broken TARDIS and with a serious wrong he needs to right. However, the way to that is a long and arduous one. Features nearly all Sherlock regulars and a great deal of Whoniverse characters, old and new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Landing

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story I assumed that the 12th Doctor was played by Siddig El Fadil aka Alexander Siddig. *shrugs* I like him, and he’d certainly make a good and very different Doctor. Thirteen is played by Benedict Cumberbatch, in case you haven’t guessed.
> 
> Also, I adopted the canon piece of Classic!Who that Time Lords can only regenerate thirteen times altogether. I don’t know if this is still the rule, but in these settings it is.

**PART 01 – THE LANDING**

This time the regeneration turned out a very rough ride, but that was to be expected. It always took a lot out of him, and since this was his last one, his energy reserves were all but depleted and the recovery longer and more tiresome than ever before.

Twelve lives had he already lived; some of them long, some shockingly short, but this was his last chance. He’d have to be more careful with this one. His last incarnation had crossed the thousand-year-barrier, but that was still not a particularly high age for a Time Lord. In fact, going through all possible regenerations in a mere millennium could be considered a reckless thing… or particularly bad luck.

Not that he’d ever cared what other people – even other Time Lords – would think about him.

He clambered to his feet and went to the mirror, considerately provided by the TARDIS, to check his new appearance… and gave a rather undignified squeal when he saw the thick red curls. Finally ginger! It had only taken him thirteen lives and a millennium to finally get the hair colour he’d have preferred all the time!

The rest wasn’t bad either, not bad at all. Pale, aristocratic features – well, the nose was a bit short but still acceptable – large, slanted blue-green eyes, arched eyebrows like the wings of a swallow… it was a surprisingly attractive face if he said so himself. Certainly the best-looking one he’d worn for a very long time.

The body going with it earned his approval, too. For starters, he was tall again – what a relief after the scruffy little man he’d been most recently! Tall and fairly thin, with long limbs and a predatory grace to its movements that his eleventh regeneration so woefully lacked. All in all, a very good body, considering that it was going to be his last one.

“You’ll do just fine,” he told his mirror image and was pleased with his new voice. A warm, rich baritone; the best voice he’d had so far.

The best voice he was ever going to have, all things considered.

Now he had to choose the right outfit, which promised to be a lengthy stay in the wardrobe. This new appearance demanded something distinctively elegant; something classic. Suits, most likely. And a matching coat.

As he entered the wardrobe, the TARDIS, picking up his line of thinking, gently moved one of the sections forward. There were several classic suits, in dark grey and black, with narrow-leg trousers and two-button, slim-cut jackets. He experimentally fingered the sleeve of one jacket; the cloth was really very nice to touch. Such sombre colours weren’t really his thing – at least hadn’t been since his ninth incarnation – but with such a flaming hair colour he had to be careful with his choices or he’d end up looking like a clown.

Been there, done that, still feeling vaguely ashamed about it.

The same aspect was to be considered by the choice of shirts; fortunately, the TARDIS had a flawless taste in such things (whenever he chose to listen to her, which was, admittedly, a rare occasion). She offered him fitted shirts in white and in deep purple or aubergine (the latter ones with a little lilac pinstripe), which accentuated his new, slim silhouette and sat perfectly. He opted for a purple one with a dark grey suit.

By such elegant clothing wearing his beloved trainers was out of question. Naturally. In fact, he didn’t even feel like wearing trainers ever again. So he followed the TARDIS’ lead and pulled on the proffered black leather lace-up shoes and found them surprisingly comfortable. He also selected a stainless steel Rotary watch and fastened it around his wrist.

“Brilliant,” he judged, checking his greatly improved looks in the conveniently appearing large mirror. He hadn’t cared much about such things during his last four lives, but now he was beginning to understand what Jack Harkness had meant about vanity and getting older.

Was he really getting older, now that he’d reached the last leg of his journeys?

He shook his head; that was a stupid line of thought, and besides, he didn’t want to burden himself with memories about Jack Harkness and what he owed the man. He’d have to give _that_ topic a great deal of thought later, but right now he was still finding his footing.

Speaking of which, he needed to get out of the TARDIS and take a look around to determine where – and, more importantly, _when_ – had he landed. The time stamp in the control room had shown twenty-first-century Britain last time he’d managed to get a glimpse, but that needed to be narrowed down. The TARDIS could never navigate well within short time distances, so one could never know…

He had no idea in which season he’d landed, either, but weather in Britain was never particularly pleasant if memory served him well. He needed a coat, because he adamantly refused to use an umbrella. Never again. Probably a scarf and a pair of gloves, too. Who could tell what the weather was doing outside?

Already a step ahead of him, the TARDIS moved forward another section, and he could see a lovely woollen coat of classic cut. Waterproof, too, with a red buttonhole on the lapel; that reminded him of the stalk of celery he once used to wear in his buttonhole – in hindsight he couldn’t understand what had ridden him to do something so idiotic. But again, his dressing choices hadn’t always been very distinguished.

The dark coat came with an amazingly soft, navy blue cashmere scarf that had tasselled ends. It wasn’t quite as long as the knitted one in those garish colours he’d once worn, but still long enough to double it and hook it around his neck. He loved it at once. Grabbing the pair of gloves made of black leather and dark grey wool that peeked out of the pockets of the coat, he now felt armed to face reality outside of his little cocoon.

Deciding against wearing a hat, at least for the time being, he put the sonic screwdriver into his breast pocket and leaving the TARDIS to her own devices (the old girl needed more time to reconfigure herself after a regeneration than in earlier times) he stepped out to check his surroundings.

~TBC~


	2. The Watcher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well – fanfic is there to right things that went wrong in canon, right? Besides, since Moffat flat-out refused to bring Ianto back, I saw it as my duty to do so.

PART 02 – THE WATCHER

The man known as Mycroft Holmes – by the small handful of people aside from the British government who’d ever had the privilege to meet him in person – returned from the Diogenes Club to the Holmes estate in a moderately foul mood. Not that anyone but his closest co-workers would have recognized that. He’d long learned to school his features not to reveal anything but what he’d want to be revealed.

One of said co-workers was waiting for him in the spacious study of the residence. It was a beautiful, old-fashioned room with expensive old furniture that joined a huge library. A young man in his mid-twenties, wearing a sharp, three-piece charcoal grey Savile Row suit, a button-down aubergine shirt with a silk tie and high-polished dress shoes, Ianto Jones looked supremely good for a supposedly dead man, Mycroft found.

And he made the best cup of coffee on the planet.

Contrary to common belief, Mycroft Holmes preferred coffee. He only drank tea outside his private refugium, in order to keep up appearances. Appearances that were expected from somebody occupying, as he liked to put it, “a minor position in the British government”.

“Rough day, Mr. Holmes?” Ianto inquired politely, while helping his employer out of his coat and hanging it up carefully, so that it wouldn’t get any creases.

He had a mellow voice with a soft Welsh accent that Mycroft found very soothing – which was another reason, beside his coffee and his reliability, to keep him around.

“More like frustrating,” Mycroft replied, sitting down behind his desk and accepting a cup of Ianto’s magnificent coffee absent-mindedly. “Flushing out all the dirt related to the so-called 456 invasion is very time-consuming. Every time I think we’ve found all people involved, a new thread would pop up and we have to go after a whole new bunch of people,” he breathed in the coffee vapours deeply. “Oh, I’ve dreamt of this all day.”

“I’m still surprised that Brian Green and his fellow conspirators were able to keep this from you, sir,” Ianto commented softly.

There was no accusation in his voice – although he’d have been entitled to some, considering his own untimely end because of said people. Mycroft shrugged.

“You forget that I wasn’t present at the first contact. In fact, I wasn’t even in Britain at that time. And it was so short and isolated that I never had a reason to look for anything unusual within that particular timeframe. By the time the aliens returned, practically all evidence had long been deleted – it was easier before the global data digitalisation. Burned papers cannot be so easily reconstructed as deleted files.”

Ianto nodded in acceptance because that was certainly true.

Mycroft smiled grimly. “They’ve tried to keep me out of the loop this time, too. Without Mummy, I’d never have found out what was happening behind the scenes. The PR and the cover-up were being handled expertly; I’m still looking for the mastermind behind the scheme, because neither Dekker, nor Frobisher would have been smart enough for that.”

“True,” Ianto said with a reserved little smile. “She was amazing. I hope she’ll keep working wonders.”

Mycroft nodded in sympathy. He knew what the young man was hoping for and wished the best for him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Mummy’s looking for him all the time. Should he ever set foot on Earth again, we’ll learn about it in the same instance. And considering your… erm… special circumstances, you’ve got the time to wait for him.”

“True enough,” Ianto allowed. “Dead men don’t have to hurry.”

They exchanged identical rueful smiles. Ianto still felt bad about not being able to tell his sister the truth, letting her grieve for him, but it couldn’t be helped. Not before the whole 456-mess was dealt with. As long as there were still people who’d been involved free, his life would be in danger. It was better that Rhiannon grieved for him with no reason than giving her a reason to do so.

Mycroft has his own regrets, a fairly large bunch of them. He never spoke about them, and Ianto knew better than to ask.

Their discussion was interrupted by Anthea, who hurried in, keeping her eyes on her Blackberry device as always.

“Sir, we’ve got a positive identification,” she said without looking up to them. “Mummy expects the impact in six minutes, thirty-four seconds.”

The two men looked at each other in surprise.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Mycroft said. “I haven’t counted on him returning to Earth any time soon. Do you have the estimated coordinates of the impact?”

Anthea had them of course. She was nothing if not thorough, and she could work with Mummy like no-one else. She simply showed them the display of her Blackberry, and the two men were stunned.

“Why would he come here, of all places?” Ianto asked. “I thought the two of you didn’t get on well.”

“We don’t,“ Mycroft replied. “But it might not be his choice. Mummy isn’t the only one with a will of her own.”

He turned to Anthea. “I believe, my dear, it would be the best if you went out to welcome him. And have Mummy deal with the surveillance devices. We don’t want any CCTV footage of his arrival.”

“Yes, sir,” she hurried off, still focused on her Blackberry.

Mycroft looked at Ianto. “Perhaps it would be wiser if you didn’t show yourself while he’s here. At least for the time being. We don’t know in which shape he is… or how he’d react to anyone from Torchwood.”

“I seriously doubt he’d even remember me,” Ianto replied bitterly, “and believe me, sir, playing nice with him is the last thing I’d want. I’m not the one who’d worship the ground he walks on – quite the contrary.”

“As long as you don’t shoot him at fist sight, you’ll be fine,” Mycroft emptied his coffee cup. To his regret, the coffee had already gone cold.

“I shall try to restrain myself, sir,” Ianto replied with a bland smile and retreated to Mummy’s archives that were strategically hidden deep within the library.

 

~TBC~


	3. A.N.T.H.E.A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The full version of the A.N.T.H.E.A acronym is the creation of my good friend, [](http://jenn-calaelen.dreamwidth.org/profile)[jenn_calaelen](http://jenn-calaelen.dreamwidth.org/), whom I owe my thanks. Credit be given where credit is due. *g*

**CHAPTER 03 – A.N.T.H.E.A**

As soon as he left the TARDIS and took his first glimpse, the Doctor couldn’t suppress a groan of dismay. Of all places on Earth, his ship had just to pick the Holmes estate to crash land, hadn’t she?

In a way it made excellent sense, of course. If anyone, Mycroft Holmes was the most likely person to assist them with their little problem. That still didn’t mean that the Doctor actually _wanted_ to meet the renegade Time Lord who’d been living on Earth in human disguise for at last fifty years.

He’d done his level best to avoid such meetings in the past – what counted as the past in his personal timeline, that is – even though, or especially because Mycroft had the annoying tendency to show up at the least convenient moment. Occupying a “minor position in the British government” – and keeping it somehow for half a century, without anyone becoming suspicious – had given the Watcher, as he’d once been known, an unfortunate advantage over the then-exiled Doctor.

Living on Earth on sufferance of UNIT had been bad enough, without his fellow Time Lord being unbearably smug about it. Even now, ten regenerations later, the Doctor felt the old annoyance well up in him.

He was not the least surprised that his arrival had already been noticed. After all, Mycroft had the best possible surveillance system on the planet – and well beyond it: the salvaged central console of a dead TARDIS, trapped on Earth without the heart of the ship that would enable him to leave. It would have noticed the falling of a leaf in the extensive park surrounding the manor house; spotting another TARDIS slamming into the earth behind the building was no real challenge for it.

As expected, it was Anthea who came to look for him: the pretty, doe-eyed brunette with the smooth, ageless face. Mycroft’s highly efficient PA as far as most people were concerned. His bed warmer if one believed the gossip columns. The Doctor was probably the only one save for Mycroft himself to know who – _what_! – Anthea really was.

She was wearing a little black dress as she’d done every time they met, few as those times had been, her huge, dark eyes practically fused to her Blackberry device, her well-manicured fingers moving across the touch screen with superhuman speed. As always, the Doctor felt a pang of jealousy at the speed she was constantly receiving and correlating astonishing amounts of data; not even he could keep up with _that_ , and he was several magnitudes faster than other people.

There were cases where organic beings were at definite disadvantage.

“Anthea,” she said with a stiff nod, by way of greeting.

A.N.T.H.E.A, as the true identification code of the being facing him would have been spelled – it stood for Artificial Nano-Technology Human-form Executive Assistant, a definition so stupid that whoever had come up with it should have been shot on the spot – finally looked up from her Blackberry. Her luminous eyes turned opaque for a moment as she performed at least a dozen different scans on him within 4.5 seconds.

“You’ve regenerated,” she stated the obvious.

“No kidding,” he replied dryly.

She blinked again, her fingers moving over the touch screen of the Blackberry in a blur, without her needing to look at what she was doing.

“Come,” she said abruptly. “Himself is waiting.”

“And we can’t possibly make him wait for a nanosecond too long,” the Doctor commented sarcastically.

Anthea ignored him – sarcasm was wasted on her anyway – and led him into the house without a further word.

~TBC~


	4. Mycroft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the Watcher aka Mycroft is not a canon Time Lord. I simply made him up.

  
CHAPTER 04 – MYCROFT

The inside of the Holmes residence had barely changed since his last visit, despite the decades gone by. It was still the same spacious Victorian house with its expensive old furniture, vintage wallpapers and hand-painted stained glass lamps as it had been half a century earlier when the stranded Time Lord stepped into the role of the eldest son of the old and respected family. A son who’d conveniently fallen victim to a guerrilla attack during the Aden Emergency.

Mycroft Holmes had barely changed himself; a fact that he liked to explain away with the amazing progress of plastic surgery in recent years… if indeed anyone happened to comment on it. Which rarely happened, as he preferred to interact with other people – especially with those who had known the original Mycroft – as little as possible. With the hush-hush job he was doing for the British government it was surprisingly easy to lead a solitary life.

He was waiting for the Doctor in the middle of his study – a surprisingly elegant, old-fashioned room with it French windows open to the park that could have doubled as a gorgeous film set. He was wearing a tailored three piece suit in sombre black, defined by the distinctive rounded cut of the waistcoat that made him look even taller than he already was, with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. The silver chain of his ancient pocket watch – the one in which a great deal of his true being was stored – was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and, as always, his sleek back umbrella was leaned against his desk, within reach.

Just where one would expect a powerful, well-concealed weapon to be kept.

A sinfully expensive fountain pen – black, with a gold nib, his equivalent of a sonic screwdriver – peeked out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The Doctor knew from personal experience that one could actually _write_ with the bloody thing, aside from its more important functions. And while he preferred his sonic screwdriver the way it was, he couldn’t deny that Mycroft’s solution was the more elegant one.

“My dear Doctor!” Mycroft exclaimed with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What a surprise to see you again! I thought you’d turned your back on this planet for good!”

“You _hoped_ , you mean,” the Doctor returned with a scowl.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft said smoothly. “I never had any objections to your presence on Earth; if I had, I’d have found a way to remove you. The planet is big enough for two of us – even if you’ll have to stay a little longer this time.”

“What do you mean?” the Doctor tried to hedge around the truth a little; not that he’d be able to fool Mycroft and he knew that, but admitting that he, too, was stranded here, at least for the time being, wasn’t easy.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Oh, please! You crash-land in my back yard and expect me _not_ to deduce that your TARDIS wouldn’t go anywhere for the next couple of years? I don’t even need Mummy to calculate the possibilities for _that_! The poor ship was already a derelict when you stole it from the junkyard and aided you by how many regenerations? Ten? Eleven?”

“Twelve, actually, and you know that,” the Doctor replied coldly. How typical for Mycroft to remind him that this was the last chance given to him!

“Of course I do!” Mycroft replied with an inelegant snort. “Therefore it’s safe to assume that you won’t be making any new trips in the next few years – if ever. You better get used to leading a settled life.”

“Like you?” the Doctor asked, his new, pleasant voice dripping with sarcasm.

“God, no!” Mycroft exclaimed. “I don’t want to have you around me any more than you want to _be_ around me all the time! You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy.”

“ _I_ upset her?” the Doctor repeated in disbelief. " _Me_ "?

Mycroft’s fights with his crippled TARDIS/supercomputer/whatever had always been spectacular, even though Anthea was the only one to regularly witness them. Really, he’d only got to see Mummy once or twice and barely interacted with her!

“Well, she doesn’t like you,” Mycroft replied testily, “and frankly, neither do I. Not too much. So no, having you stay here is not an option, not in the long run. But considering who we are, I’m willing to help you blend in as I have done.”

“You never actually told me how you did it,” the Doctor said. “You obviously have a completely human physiology, so you _had_ to use a chameleon arch. That’s the only way. But how comes that your memory is intact?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Well, neither me nor the Master had any memories of our true selves after using the Arch,” the Doctor replied.

Mycroft gave him one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles.

“Has it never occurred to you – either of you – that _that_ was the side effect of a faulty chameleon arch of an outdated TARDIS?” he asked. “What good would the best disguise do if you can’t remember who you actually are?”

That made sense, so the Doctor chose _not_ to react to the slighting of his beloved timeship.

“So, des this mean that _your_ chameleon arch is still functioning?” he asked. “Can it do the same for me?”

“The core of my TARDIS is missing,” Mycroft replied grimly, “and while most auxiliary systems are in the best working order, you know as well as I do that the chameleon arch is useless without Huon energy. You’ll have to use yours – and accept the loss of memories for the time being. Until your TARDIS becomes functional again.”

“Terrific!” the Doctor scowled. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Where am I to live?”

“I’m sure you’ll find enough ex-companions in Britain who’d have to take you in as a boarder with open arms,” Mycroft replied smoothly.

The Doctor was vaguely unsure about _that_. His recent companions didn’t really have a reason to do so, and frankly, he’d lost track of anyone before his ninth incarnation for a long time. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

“Anthea can help you tracking them down,” Mycroft continued, as if he’d know what the Doctor was thinking. Perhaps he did. He used to be the Watcher, after all, keeping tab on people, especially those of his own kind, was something he did by default. “And I’m going to help you with the paper trail.”

“What paper trail?” the Doctor asked in understandable suspicion.

At least _he_ thought it was understandable. Other people might not agree; but other people didn’t know Mycroft Holmes like he did.

“If you are to live here for a longer period, we’ll need to create an ID for you,” Mycroft explained with forced patience. “Unlike last time, you cannot count on UNIT backing you up. This time you’ll need something waterproof, or you’re going to draw a great deal of unwanted assistance. And believe me, after the events with the 456 the reaction wouldn’t be a pleasant one.”

That was very true indeed. The Doctor had experienced an alarming level of hostility to the mere idea of visiting aliens during his previous two incarnations. Being trapped on Earth while the population went through a new xenophobic phase did have its risks.

“Any ideas how we’re supposed to do it?” he asked. Being dependent on Mycroft’s help was something he hated very much, but in his current situation he couldn’t be choosy.

Mycroft gave him one of those sickly smiles that always made his stomach churn. “Actually… yes. I’m going to adopt you.”

~TBC~


	5. Contingency Plans

**CHAPTER 05 – CONTINGENCY PLANS**

It didn’t happen very often that the Doctor would stare at someone with open-mouthed shock. This was one of those rare occasions.

“You are going… _what_?”

Mycroft sighed impatiently. “Oh, come on, I know you’ve long mapped out my human background. Therefore you know all too well that the original Mycroft Holmes had a younger brother named Sherlock; a disturbed young genius no-one really knew how to deal with.”

The Doctor raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “As far as I know Sherlock Holmes has been living in a very exclusive psychiatric institute ever since you’ve taken over his brother’s place.”

“That’s not entirely correct,” Mycroft replied calmly. “You should really pay more attention to the facts behind the paper trail, my dear Doctor. If you had, you’d know that Sherlock Holmes never really was in that hospital… well, not very long anyway. He committed suicide soon after his brother had fallen in war. He’d been nothing but a name and an account ever since.”

“And now you’ve decided to resurrect him,” the Doctor said; it wasn’t really a question.

Mycroft nodded. “A most elegant solution, don’t you agree? It will give you social status and money to secure your existence.”

“But if the younger Holmes is supposed to have spent decades in a mental institute, does it not mean that his wealth is controlled by the family?” the Doctor inquired.

“Details,” Mycroft waved dismissively. “We can change them: decades to a year or two, a mental illness to a severe drug problem. I’ve made myself younger on a regular basis and no-one has ever noticed. By now, consensus has reached a point where people think me the son of the original Mycroft; the records have been changed accordingly. We’ll change the records of Sherlock Holmes, too, so that they’d match.

“That would still leave you in charge of my – _Sherlock’s_ – wealth,” the Doctor said, and Mycroft nodded amiably.

“Of course; for the next couple of years anyway. I find that most fortunate. It allows me to keep an eye on you.”

The Doctor scowled at his fellow-Time-Lord-in-exile. “I _hate_ you!”

“Yes, I rather imagine you would,” Mycroft replied with an elegant shrug. “Unfortunately for you, you also _need_ me. And with your track record where disasters are concerned, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to roam this planet unsupervised. Not even while you don’t remember who you actually _are_.”

“You have no right…” the Doctor began angrily, but Mycroft interrupted him mid-sentence.

“I have every right in the multiverse, my dear Doctor. I’m the _Watcher_ , remember? Keeping rogues in their reins is what I _do_.”

“You’re as much a rogue as I am,” the Doctor snapped.

Mycroft shook his head with a cold smile. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve _never_ been a rogue. I was sent through Time by the High Council itself to look out for rogues who used to frequent this planet too much. When I got trapped, after the Time War, I chose to become one of the people here, because this seemed the best way to protect them.”

The Doctor snorted. “How could you protect them in human form? You’ve willingly laid down all your powers.”

“But I still have my knowledge,” Mycroft pointed out,” and I still have Mummy. Where I can’t get access to her as a human, Anthea can. Together, we manage. Not perfectly, granted; the 456 disaster showed our limits with painful clearance. But still better than others who drop in, wreak havoc and then run away without picking up the pieces afterwards.”

The Doctor briefly wondered whether Mycroft was hinting at the Master or at himself – or both.

“So yes,” Mycroft continued, “I’m more than entitled to watch over you, whether you’re himself or wearing a human disguise. And posing as your older brother will give me the means to do so.”

“No need to gloat about it,” the Doctor muttered angrily, because he had no other choice and he knew it.

The simplest medical examination could reveal his alien nature, and without a fully functional TARDIS backing him up he’d end up in some secret government lab, getting sliced and diced. Not even UNIT could be trusted anymore, and with Jack Harkness off-planet, no-one would come to his rescue.

_If_ Jack would be willing to rescue him to begin with. Their last encounter in a seedy bar on some far-away, backwater planet had been less than amiable. Jack still hadn’t forgiven him for his absence during the 456 crisis. A crisis that resulted in the untimely death of his young lover.

It was so uncharacteristic for Jack! As a rule, he wouldn’t stick with one partner, knowing that he’d lose them anyway sooner or later. They died and he lived on. So why this particular one? Once upon a time Jack Harkness had worshipped the ground the Doctor walked on. Why would he turn his back on him now, because of an utterly replaceable human being?

But that was neither here nor there. He had to deal with his current problem without burdening himself with Jack Harkness and his grievances. Besides, he wouldn’t remember the man once the chameleon arch had done its thing, so it was a moot point anyway.

“All right,” he said. “But I want to lead a useful life as a human… one that wouldn’t be boring. Can you arrange that?”

“Mummy will do her best; and her best is usually more than adequate,” Mycroft replied. “Now, about the technicalities: do you happen to have a pocket watch?”

The Doctor shook his head. His old fob watch, the one he’d used to hide from the Family of Blood, had long gone lost – he couldn’t even remember when and where – and he never got the chance to acquire a new one. Gallifreyan fob watches with the special ability to store a Time Lord’s biology and personality had become extremely rare since the destruction of the planet.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance, sir,” a mellow voice with a soft Welsh accent said, and a young man in a sharp suit entered the study, with an old-fashioned pocket watch lying upon his open palm.

In the next moment an overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ hit the Doctor like a brick wall.

~TBC~


	6. Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, I know the CoE fix-it is neither unique nor original. It wasn’t my intention to come up with something that’s never been done before. I just wanted Ianto back.

**CHAPTER 06 – WRONG**

The feeling was so strong that for a moment he could barely breathe. It was similar yet at the same time subtly different from what he used to feel around Jack Harkness… only that he’d grown _used_ to Jack’s wrongness. With considerable effort, he could even ignore it.

_This_ , however, was something entirely new.

Giving the young man a good, hard look, the Doctor got the vague impression that he ought to know him from somewhere. He took another look, an even closer one, taking in the smooth, youthful face and the blue eyes that had that special _thousand-year-stare_ , revealing that their owner had already seen too much in his young life.

The young man had a kind of bland smile plastered over his face used by shopkeepers or hotel receptionists mostly; usually when dealing with particularly bothersome clientele. But those blue eyes of his remained colder than the polar ice caps. They even mirrored some deep-rooted dismay as he looked at the Doctor.

“That’s him?” he asked from Mycroft with a somewhat old-fashioned politeness. “The new him?”

Mycroft nodded. “That’s him, yes. Have you found anything?” he then asked, seemingly out of context, but the young man appeared to understand him anyway.

“There are a few possibilities, sir, but not too many,” he replied. “I’ve already filed my report.”

“Mr. Jones is my librarian,” Mycroft added by way of introduction.

“ _Archivist_ , sir, if you don’t mind,” the young man corrected for what must have been the umpteenth time if his eyeroll was any indication. “That’s what I’ve been trained for, and I take great pride in my work, as you know.”

“Semantics,” Mycroft waved off the young man’s protest loftily.

Still, the Doctor couldn’t help being impressed. Few people could correct Mycroft Holmes and get away with it.

Strangely enough, that only increased the feeling of nagging familiarity that pierced even the nauseating wrongness that enveloped the young man.

“Do I know you?” he asked, frowning.

“You should,” the young man replied with an indifferent shrug. “I’m not surprised that you won’t remember, though. We never actually me; not in person. And the only time you saw me on a viewscreen, you were only interested in Gwen. If I remember correctly, you and that Rose person were babbling something about spatial genetic multiplicity. Cos, of course, Gwen-bloody-Cooper could be the only person of importance, as always.”

The Doctor’s eyebrows drew closer together. “You worked for Torchwood? _Jack’s_ Torchwood? In Cardiff?”

“For both branches, actually,” the young man answered coldly. “I’m the only Torchwood Archivist who survived Canary Wharf. _Then_ I worked for the Cardiff branch until our base got blown up by certain government agents who wanted to cover their dirty tracks that could have connected them to the 456 invasion.”

He gave Mycroft a look that was positively glacial. The former Time Lord sighed.

“Ianto, I told you many times how sorry I am. For not knowing about the first contact with the 456 to begin with. For not even being in London when the whole mess got out of control. Dekker and his associates knew why they lured me away to the Arabian Desert with the false premise of a political crisis. They knew I wouldn’t have let them get away with that abysmal plan of theirs.”

The Doctor was only half-listening to Mycroft’s excuses. He was staring at the young Welshman in genuine shock.

“You’re _Ianto_? Ianto Jones? _Jack’s_ Ianto? But that’s impossible! Jack’s Ianto died from the 456 virus!”

“I did,” the young man replied blandly. “I’m better now.”

“No!” the Doctor protested. “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. You can’t be! There can’t be _two_ of you! It’s _wrong_!”

“Yeah, I remember Jack mentioning something about _that_ to me,” Ianto said coldly. “How it was your first reaction to him, after he’d waited almost two centuries for you, hoping that you’d help him… and that you couldn’t start the TARDIS quickly enough to get away from him. Not even caring that he was still clinging to that stupid wooden box. So forgive me if I don’t give a shit for your temporal sensitivities. He didn’t _choose_ to become what he is, and neither did I. It… it happened; and you’re a cold-hearted bastard.”

“But it’s impossible!” the Doctor argued. “When it happened to Jack, it was the TARDIS… and Rose, who opened the heart of the TARDIS, absorbed the Time Vortex…”

… and ever since then, Jack has been carrying a tiny spark of the Time Vortex inside him,” Ianto cut in. “That enables him to give others from his life energy; to help them as long as they aren’t beyond help yet – or to bring them back if he gets to them in time. Well, he _did_ get to me in time; in both cases. He’s brought me back twice, and the second time it seems to have stuck.”

“So, now you’re a fixed point in time like Jack?” the Doctor asked doubtfully. “You feel… different. Still wrong, mind you, but in a different way.”

“I’m flattered,” Ianto replied with a look that could have frozen Hell over.

“We’re not entirely sure about the ramifications; not yet,” Mycroft intervened. "His resurrection isn’t spontaneous like that of Captain Harkness. It took him days in the morgue of _St. Bart’s_ to come back, and he was fortunate that we’ve got an… _associate_ there who helped him instead of stabbing him with a scalpel or calling MI5. We don’t dare to test his abilities; his resurrection may be dependant on the life force of Captain Harkness. We simply don’t know. So, until we flush out the whole conspiracy behind the 456 crisis, I found it better to keep him here where he’s safe.

The Doctor nodded absently. What little he’d learned about the conspiracy gave Mycroft’s actions a lot of sense.

“Does Jack know?” he then asked. “He’s devastated by the loss… a shadow of himself.”

“Unfortunately, Captain Harkness had already left planet when Ianto came back,” Mycroft replied. “We’re watching out for his eventual return, of course, but we have no means to contact him while he’s off-world.”

“What if he never returns?” the Doctor asked.

“He will, given enough time,” Ianto said simply. “He’s promised to come back; that he’ll _always_ come back. He just needs to deal with he pain first. He didn’t just lose me; he lost _everything_ , including the only family he still had.”

“You shouldn’t trust his promises unconditionally,” the Doctor warned. “He’s not the sort of person to settle down.”

If Ianto was insulted on Jack’s behalf he gave no sign of it.

“He waited for _you_ a century and a half,” he reminded the Doctor flatly. “Not _his_ fault that he did so in vain. Now, are you taking the bloody watch or not?”

“Language, Mr. Jones,” Mycroft said quietly. Ianto just shrugged.

The Doctor gingerly picked up the watch from the young Welshman’s palm and stared at the circular Gallifreyan symbols etched onto the surface of its lid in shocked surprise.

“But this is _my_ watch!” he exclaimed. “The old one I’ve already used once.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied smugly. “New ones are hard to come by in these days, you know.”

~TBC~


	7. The Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brownie points for those who know the people Mycroft and Ianto are talking about. Well, aside from Mike Stamford, of course, who’s kind of obvious.

**CHAPTER 07 – THE WATCH**

“How did you come to _my_ watch?” the Doctor demanded.

“He didn’t; I did,” Ianto said. “You never realized that Martha kept it, did you?”

The Doctor shook his head mutely.

“Well, she did. And when she left UNIT after the destruction of the Manhattan base and went off with Tom to work for _Médicines Sans Frontiers_ she left this in my custody… in case it should be needed again.”

“But why would she leave it with _you_?” the Doctor wondered. “Why not with Jack?”

“Cos she knew I wouldn’t get all sentimental and let you out at a whim,” Ianto answered coldly. “If you use the chameleon arch, I’ll see to it that you remain stored in that watch until the TARDIS is fully functioning again – so that we can kick you off this planet for good. You’ve ruined enough lives as it is.”

“Hey!” the Doctor protested angrily. “That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it?” Ianto returned with a terrifying smile. “Isn’t the UK full of ex-companions who could never live a normal life after you got bored of them?”

The Doctor tuned to Mycroft for support because _that_ certainly wasn’t true – most of his companions had left by choice, after all – but the ex-Time-Lord simply shrugged.

“Don’t look at me; I happen to agree with him. You never cared for your ex-companions after you’d got rid of them – save for that little blonde tramp your tenth self managed to develop a very unhealthy and thoroughly inappropriate obsession with.”

“Tosh always said something must have gone wrong with that regeneration,” Ianto commented, and Mycroft’s face softened considerably.

“Ah, Toshiko! She was something special, wasn’t she? So bright, so loyal, so brave. It’s a crying shame she had to die so soon. But she was right, you know. Absorbing the unleashed Time Vortex can get even a Time Lord mentally unhinged. And his tenth self certainly wasn’t very stable.”

“Stop talking about me as if I weren’t here!” the Doctor snapped.

The other two gave him identical condescending smiles – quite a feat, actually, considering that one of them was a millennia-old ex-Time-Lord and the other one a no-longer-quite-mortal human being.

“So terribly sorry, my dear Doctor,” Mycroft said with exaggerated – and entirely false – patience, “but I’m afraid you don’t really have anything to say in this matter. _I was_ the one to pick up the pieces after you all the time; the one to try and fix the lives you’d upset or nearly destroyed through your ignorance.”

“Why would you care,” the Doctor shrugged. “It wasn’t your business.”

“Oh, but it was,” Mycroft said. “You see, even though I’ve lived as a human for so long, I still am the Watcher. And I don’t only watch out for my fellow Time Lords; I also keep an eye on the people they are – or were – associated with. Well, actually Mummy does, but that’s irrelevant for the outcome.”

“It’s called responsibility,” Ianto added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Something you used to preach a lot about to _other_ people but rarely practiced yourself.”

“You really hate me so much?” the Doctor was mildly shocked. Humans usually went in awe of him, even if they sometimes got irritated with him and his ways.

Ianto gave him one of those bland, I’m-talking-to-an-idiot smiles that he’d usually reserved for annoying visitors of the now gone tourist office that had served as the cover shop of Torchwood Cardiff.

“You have no idea,” was all he said.

“Besides,” Mycroft interrupted smoothly, before things could have become _really_ ugly between the Doctor and Ianto,” by keeping in touch with your ex-companions we’ve got an intricate network of useful people, from Navy admirals through forensic pathologists to little old ladies with rooms to rent. With people who don’t get shocked or surprised by, say, _weird_ things. You would be surprised by the contacts we have in the most unusual places.”

“But since you won’t remember anyway, it would be a moot point to tell you, so we shan’t,” Ianto added with deep satisfaction.

Then he turned to Mycroft. “Sir, Mummy and Anthea are already working on creating a waterproof background. I’ve taken the liberty to set up a list of records that will need to be… erm… fitted. I don’t foresee any problems with integrating your ‘brother’ into society in general and the Holmes family in particular.”

“He’ll need a human associate, though,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “A friend of some sort who’d only know him as my somewhat… _problematic_ younger brother and who’s reliable enough to count on him – or her – in the case of an emergency.”

Ianto thought about it for a moment. “What about our contact at _St. Bart’s_?” he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “That won’t do. She’s a dear, but she’s known to have a soft spot for odd, brilliant men. Romantic interests always cloud one’s judgement.”

“Well, Mike Stamford, then,” Ianto suggested. “He works at _St. Bart’s_ , too, which would make keeping in touch a lot easier.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed, “but wouldn’t that be a bit risky? Should he grow suspicious…”

“Why should he?” Ianto asked with a shrug. “His mother never told him about her travels with the Doctor before she’d choose to forget; and besides, they’re so estranged they hadn’t even spoken with each other in years. Neither does the old lady know who _you_ really are, does she?”

“No,” Mycroft shook his head. “Neither does Admiral Jackson, for that matter. They both opted for a fresh start from the scratch and were given false memories about their association. It was their choice, and thy always seemed happy enough with it. All right, Mike Stamford it is. We’ll have to give him a few memories of having known ‘Sherlock’ for a long time, though.”

Ianto nodded, making notices I his hand-held PDA.

“Diffuse memories about sporadic childhood encounters would be the best,” he suggested. “Nobody remembers clearly other kids he met cos their parents used to socialise. We’ll give according memories to Mrs. Stamford and Admiral Jackson, too, just to back up the story; and to ‘Sherlock’, of course. It wouldn’t do if he were the only one without a clue who these people are.”

“Polly doesn’t wear the name Stamford anymore, though,” Mycroft reminded him.

Ianto smiled. “I know. But that’s the name ‘Sherlock’ will remember her by,” he pocketed his PDA. “I’ll see into the background details, sir, leaving it to the two of you to deal with the TARDIS. Would you want some coffee in the meantime?”

“That would be most welcome, thank you,” Mycroft replied.

“Black, two sugar,” the Doctor said absent-mindedly at the same time, causing the other two to stare at him in surprise.

“But you _never_ drink coffee!” Mycroft finally said. “You were exclusively a tea person in all your lives!”

The Doctor shrugged a little sheepishly.

“Well, I no longer appear to be one,” he said. “Perhaps it comes with being ginger, at last.”

~TBC~


	8. The Consulting Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know the job wasn’t actually created this way, but, well, in this context I hope I can get away with it. *g*

**CHAPTER 08 – THE CONSULTING DETECTIVE**

Fifteen minutes later Ianto served them the best coffee one could get on planet Earth (and beyond), with custard cream biscuits, to the Doctor’s delight who’d _loved_ custard cream in practically all his incarnations. Then he left the two Gallifreyans alone, so that they could work out the little details of the Doctor’s upcoming stay on Earth.

“We need something where you can satisfy your natural curiosity and use your powers of deduction,” Mycroft said. “Those are very useful traits and it would be a shame to neglect them. I’ve given this a great deal of thought, long before you’d even show up, but frankly, I’m at the end of my tether.”

“Well, I used to work on Earth as a scientist before,” the Doctor pointed out.

“Yes, but that was a long time ago, when UNIT knew exactly who and what you were and the Brigadier supported you,” Mycroft replied. “You could only work as a scientist in your human disguise, but not even Mummy can create a decades-long scientific career out of thin air, not in these paranoid times. And your mind is too brilliant to start from the bottom as a lab rat. So, working scientist is out of the question, I’m afraid. A shame, really; you could have done a great deal of good in that area.”

“I could work independently,” the Doctor suggested, but Mycroft shook his head.

“We can’t stomp a fully equipped lab out of the earth for you; less so considering your multiple and far-reaching interests. The income of the Holmes estate can carry a lot, but not _that_ much. Besides, there would be the lacking history problem again. Nobody would take your seriously without a long string of published articles and actual results. We can’t fake _everything_. Although,” he added as an afterthought, “I could probably plant you in the New Scotland Yard as a detective; or as a forensic scientist at _St. Bart’s_.”

“Boring,” the Doctor interrupted. “I don’t want a dull job, Mycroft, not even as a human. I want something _challenging_ ; something to occupy my mind. Solving crimes could be interesting, yes, but all that tedious paperwork… no, I can’t be bothered with _that_. And forensic scientist… yes, figuring out what’s happened and why and how, I’ll like to do that very much, but not with some stupid ape interfering with my work.”

“Well, I’m afraid that will be the case with any job you choose to pick up,” Mycroft said. “Unless…”

The Doctor’s ears literally perked up at that. “Unless _what_?” he asked eagerly.

Mycroft shrugged. “Unless you go into the detective business on your own.”

“A private detective?” the Doctor shuddered. “Looking for lost pets and spying on cheating husbands or wives for a living? Oh, please, are you trying to kill me through boredom? The mere idea is most dreadfully dull!”

“I thought we could create evidence that the police have consulted you repeatedly in the past, whenever they couldn’t solve a particularly complicated or… sensitive case,” Mycroft said. “That would encourage them to do so again; and we can arrange for you to use the labs at _St. Bart’s_ , should you want to check the evidence for yourself.”

“A _consulting_ detective, eh?” the Doctor mused. “That has a certain sound to it that I like. But what if someone wants to look up those old cases I’ve supposedly solved?”

“Oh, the cases _do_ actually exist,” Mycroft coughed, a little embarrassed. “Sometimes I couldn’t just sit and watch them struggle, and, well, provided them with the solution… under the name of my odd, brilliant brother who’s a genius but, unfortunately, also something of a sociopath. A high-functioning one, for sure, but still a sociopath.”

“You had a dead person solve their cases from out of a mental institute?” the Doctor asked in stunned disbelief.

Mycroft shrugged. “Well, I couldn’t do it under my own name, could I? I’m supposed to be the mysterious power behind the throne; or rather behind the government. It would have ruined my air of mystery completely. In any case, the fact that none of them has ever met ‘Sherlock’ in person will serve our purposes nicely.”

“How did you reach them, then?” the Doctor asked.

“Text messages,” Mycroft replied curtly. “The fact that Mummy can hack into their network any time helped a lot, of course. We’ll provide you with a special phone that can do the same; _and_ with a database that will prove helpful in your detective work. You’ll believe that you were the one who’d set it up, as you’ll no longer remember Mummy or _what_ she and Anthea really are.”

“What kind of database?” the Doctor asked. “Old police cases?”

“That and much, much more,” Mycroft replied. “You’ll have instant access to up-to-date scientific research, online encyclopaedias, confidential personal files and the likes. All you’ll have to do is to update the database regularly and you’ll stay ahead of the police all the time. As you’ll pose as my younger brother, nobody will be surprised that you can have access to things other people can’t.”

“That could work,” the Doctor allowed, “but what if I fail without direct access to my TARDIS? I could ruin the reputation of ‘Sherlock’ you’d built up so carefully.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied. “Even as a human your brain capacity will be high above the average. The chameleon arch only changes your biology, not your intelligence. Anthea will be watching your cases and feed your database with the facts you’ll need. Your scientific mind and your observation skills will do the rest. You’ve always been bright, even by Gallifreyan measures; you’ll do just fine.”

For a while they fell silent, contemplating the profound changes that were to come.

“Why are you doing all this?” the Doctor finally asked. “You never liked me, and frankly, the sentiment has always been mutual. You thought I was a rogue and I still think you’re a pompous, annoying, self-righteous and meddlesome arse. So why?”

“First and foremost, I’m the Watcher,” Mycroft said. “It’s also my duty to look out for stray Time Lords, in case they’d need help. And since there are only the two of us left – unless the Master is still lurking somewhere out there in human disguise – that means basically you.”

“The Master is dead,” the Doctor said. “I watched him die. He refused to regenerate, out of sheer spite, and died in my hands.”

“You forget that he was a genius,” Mycroft reminded him. “A mad genius, undoubtedly, but still a genius. If he wanted, he’d have found a way to preserve himself while he still held your TARDIS captive.”

“His body was _dead_ ,” the Doctor insisted. “And it got _cremated_. I know that for sure. I was _there_.”

“Then let’s hope that you’re right,” Mycroft said. “The last thing I’d want would be a criminal mastermind of his format on the loose. I’ve got enough problems of my own.”

“It must be hard to be the British government,” the Doctor deadpanned. “And MI5 at the same time. And the CIA as a freelancer.”

“You have no idea,” Mycroft replied without missing a beat. “Now, why don’t you go and prepare your chameleon arch with Anthea’s help – she has all the necessary data – while Ianto and I work on refining your human background?”

~TBC~


	9. Becoming Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as close to canon re: chameleon arch as research could bring me. Apologies if I’d got anything wrong. The only thing I changed was that by using a fully functional one a Time Lord could keep his memories. I needed that for Mycroft to be able to work as he does.

**CHAPTER 09 – BECOMING SHERLOCK**

It took a couple of hours – not to mention an extensive data exchange between Mummy and the Doctor’s TARDIS – but finally they were standing in the control room of said TARDIS, ready to begin. Ianto was holding the fob watch once again; Anthea was still correlating the last string of data, while the two Time Lords were looking up at the ceiling, from which some sort of helmet was descending.

Well, calling it a _helmet_ would have been somewhat exaggerated. The structure consisted of three short, wide, bent metal bands made of some silvery material, which ended in flat, round disks of the same metal. There were buttons on its top, arranged in a seemingly random pattern.

“That's it?” Ianto asked in slight disappointment. “This… _thing_ is going to rewrite every cell in your body to human?”

“Yep,” the Doctor’s exotic eyes, his only visibly alien feature, kept sliding to the device above his head as if he expected it to attack him any moment. “The chameleon arch. An amazing piece of Time Lord technology that can modify the biology of one species, so the cells register as another species. In essence, it allows the user to change their species, while their original biological information gets stored in a special device.”

“You mean the fob watch,” Ianto said. The Doctor nodded.

“Exactly. The watch itself is merely a disguise, of course, as it can’t be opened once the transformation has been completed.”

“Why?” Ianto asked. “What happens if you open it?”

“Then I’ll revert to my true self,” the Doctor explained. “Which is why it has a perception filter: to hide it from me, so that I wouldn’t accidentally blow my cover. Seeing that you’ll be the one to keep the watch, though, that’s not very likely to happen,” he shot Mycroft an annoyed look. “I thought you’ve explained it to him.”

“He has,” Ianto said before Mycroft could have answered, “but I wanted to hear it from _you_ … knowing how much you like to repeat yourself.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” the Doctor scowled.

“Immensely,” Ianto replied with a blank face. It was impossible to tell whether he truly meant it or not, but the Doctor would have bet that yes, he did. Very much so.

“You should get at it,” Mycroft said before the verbal blows could have escalated. “Delaying it won’t help with the… erm… unpleasant part, and you know it.”

“You mean the transformation is painful?” Ianto asked, and there was a gleam in his eyes that both Time Lords found slightly disturbing.

“Oh yeah,” Mycroft said with feeling. “It _hurts_. It hurts like a bitch; it changes us into something we were never meant to be, after all.”

Ianto didn’t seem to be impressed by that statement.

“Trust me sir, I know the feeling,” he said dryly. “Coming back from the dead _once_ was bad enough. Imagine what it was like for Jack during the Master’s reign – going through that several hundred times,” he glared at the Doctor accusingly. “He stopped sleeping entirely for the next _year_! He couldn’t deal with the nightmares… and where were you when he needed you?”

“Ianto,” Mycroft said sharply, a clear warning in his voice. “Try to be a little more sympathetic, would you?”

That look, that tone would have made battle-hardened generals quake in their boots. Ianto merely shrugged.

“Why should I, sir? How sympathetic was _he_ to Jack’s case?”

“That’s neither here nor there, and you’d do better if you stopped dwelling in the past,” Mycroft said sternly. “That won’t help either of you; and you’ll have to learn to tolerate each other. He’ll live as my brother for quite some time; and I expect you to be at least civil with him. Especially as he won’t remember the things you blame him for.”

“Yes, sir,” Ianto replied coldly. Mycroft sighed and shook his head.

“The two of you will be the death of mine. Give me that watch, Ianto.”

Gritting his teeth, Ianto handed him the watch. Mycroft inserted it into the chameleon arch and pushed some buttons on the helmet.

“Programming complete,” Anthea reported, consulting her Blackberry.

“All right,” Mycroft said. “Let’s do this, little brother. As they say on Raxacoricofallapatorius, the only way out is the way through. Come here.”

He helped the Doctor to put the chameleon arch over his head, so that he three flat discs would connect with his temples and the centre of his forehead. Then he flicked the switch.

In the next moment, the Doctor let out a terrible, agonised scream. Mycroft winced in sympathy. He remembered all too well the horrible, burning sensation of every cell in his body being forcibly re-written. It had felt as if he’d been poured over with gasoline and set on fire; and if the twitching and writhing and howling of the Doctor was any indication, the side effects must have been similar.

It was extremely painful to watch the only other Time Lord known to exist giving up his very being through excruciating agony. Especially as _he_ seemed to be the only one affected by the Doctor’s suffering. Anthea had no emotions whatsoever – she had a programming – and though Ianto _had_ become stark white, his bleak expression revealed nothing.

Of course, the fact that he’d lived through the Battle of Canary Wharf probably had hardened him against such things. That and having witnessed the hundreds of painful deaths of Jack Harkness, which the Master had broadcast all over the Earth during his reign. Hiding in the vaults of the Torchwood Hub, with its own time bubble – courtesy of the Rift – Ianto was one of the very few people who _remembered_ … and still blamed the Doctor for what had happened, apparently.

Besides, the dead rarely had pity with the living.

Endless minutes passed with the Doctor shrieking and seizing in agony – and then, finally, it stopped.

“Is it over?” Ianto asked flatly. Mycroft nodded.

“You can remove the watch now. Just keep it safe. And closed; once it’s opened, there will be no way to stop him reverting to his true self.”

Ianto nodded in understanding and carefully plucked the watch from its socket atop the helmet. He ran his thumb over the etchings on the surface of the lid; the gossamer fine circular lines seemed to glow from within and the watch seemed heavier and warmer. He fastened it on its chain and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat. It was a strange thing, knowing that he was now the guardian of a Time Lord.

Mycroft, in the meantime, went to the Doctor to check on him.

“Sherlock?” he asked softy. “Can you hear me, brother?”

The Doctor – _Sherlock_ – stared blankly ahead for another second before those strangely luminous eyes of his rolled back and he collapsed, landing on his bony knees rather painfully. Fortunately for him, he couldn’t feel it, having passed out already. The chameleon arch slid off, swinging above him in a pendulum. The lights within the TARDIS died, leaving only a faint golden glow coming from the central column.

“She’s switched to emergency power,” Anthea reported. She consulted her Blackberry again. “Transformation’s complete, sir. Only one heartbeat; physiology reads one hundred per cent human.”

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Let’s take him to his room. He needs rest; and the TARDIS must go into sleeping mode until she’s needed again. Anthea, if you’d do the honours.”

The android slid her arms under Sherlock's knees and back and scooped him up like a child, carrying him off to his temporary quarters. Having a titanium spine did have its advantages; none of the two men could have done this alone.

Following her, Ianto turned back from the door for a moment. His amazed look fell at a tall fridge where a moment earlier the TARDIS had stood.


	10. A Favour for Mr. Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike’s background is my doing. Obviously. Brownie points to those who’ve guessed his Whoniverse connection.

**CHAPTER 10 – A FAVOUR FOR MR. HOLMES**

Mike Stamford was content with his life; well, most of the time.

Teaching at _St. Bart’s_ , where he had absolved his medical training, was satisfying as a whole. Oh, he liked to joke about hating his students, but that wasn’t exactly true. Yes, they did drive him to the verge of madness more often than not; but they were young, bright and mostly eager, so the truth was, he like them well enough. He was just careful _not_ to show it. That would have undermined his authority, and authority was already a precarious thing with today’s youth.

Aside from the professional satisfaction, the job also paid reasonably well. He had a comfortable life, a lot of friends and occasionally even got to work with the girl he had a crush on – a sweet little thing in the morgue who, sadly, didn’t return his feelings, but some things simply couldn’t be helped.

He’d been lucky so far, and he knew it. Therefore he reacted with a sense of impending doom when on an otherwise bright and sunny day – and wasn’t _that_ a rare pleasure in London? – the sleek black limousine stopped in front of the hospital. The door on the driver’s side opened and out got a young man in a sharp suit, displaying the unreadable smile of a sphinx. A young man named Jones, the PA of Mr. Holmes.

Or _one_ of his PAs. The man with a somewhat nebulous job within the British government had several of those, each with a different task specially assigned to him or her, one stranger than the other. Mike could never figure out what they were actually doing for Mr. Holmes and frankly, he didn’t even _want_ to know.

Not that he’d dislike Jones; that would have been near impossible. Jones was eminently likeable with his impeccable manners, smart suits and quiet snark. He was relatively new, to Mike’s knowledge, yet he could make the impression as if he’d always been part of Mr. Holmes’ staff and seemed to know _everything_ due to his photographic memory.

Besides, he brewed the best coffee on the planet and, like every doctor, Mike appreciated _that_ very much.

So there was nothing wrong with Jones as a _person_. But his appearance – granted, a fairly rare occasion – usually meant that Mr. Holmes wanted something. And considering that Mike owed his career a scholarship founded by the Holmeses and his current job to the patronage of Mr. Holmes himself, saying _no_ to whatever Mr. Holmes might want wasn’t really an option.

Especially in the light of the fact that Mr. Holmes _was_ the British government, more or less.

Not that the man would ask for impossible or even illegal things. Usually, he wanted information that he’d get in other ways, too; it was just faster to get it through Mike. Sometimes he asked for Mike’s professional opinion as a doctor – mostly related to his younger brother’s drug addiction, a shameful but not too well-kept secret of the family. And sometimes, which was downright frightening, he just seemed to want to _chat_.

At such times Mike almost hated him. One didn’t just _chat_ with the British government. Not without being scared shitless, at least, and Mike hated being scared. He was a simply, friendly guy who wanted a quiet life. Having tea – well, _coffee_ since the arrival of the impeccable Mr. Jones – with the British government wasn’t his idea of a quiet life.

For a brief, futile moment he considered running and hiding, but the realistic half of his mind had already calculated the chance of _that_ ; which was somewhere between zero and nothing. So he sighed in defeat and waited patiently for Mr. Holmes’ PA/ninja butler/coffee god/whatever to catch up with him. He even plastered a fake smile across his face; after all, Jones was a pleasant-mannered guy, too.

“Mr. Jones,” he said as they shook hands. “It’s an unexpected pleasure.”

Jones’ smile broadened at that, actually reaching his eyes – another rare phenomenon.

“With emphasis on the _unexpected_ , I’m sure,” he replied, his lilting voice full of understanding.

Which was another reason why Mike liked him. He was so much more personable than that intimidating woman… Althea, Andrea, Athena, or whatever her name was. As pretty as she might be, she was definitely creepy, glued to that Blackberry device all the time.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your daily routine, Dr. Stamford,” Jones continued, “but Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you. In private.”

Mike gave the limousine a meaningful look. “Yeah, I’ve figured that much. The signs are hard to ignore.

Jones shrugged apologetically. “Well, he _does_ have a hang for the dramatic,” he admitted, “but he’s also a very busy man. And since his family practically owns _St. Bart’s_ … he shrugged again and opened the door for Mike. “Please get in, Dr. Stamford.”

He then walked around the limousine to take the driver’s seat again; a clear sign that whatever Mr. Holmes wanted was confidential. Otherwise he’d have brought his usual driver.

The powerful man himself was elegantly sprawled on the back seat, wearing a Gieves and Hawkes tailored three piece suit in charcoal grey, which matched the upholstery of the limousine seamlessly, the inevitable umbrella placed firmly between his knees. He looked supremely elegant and just a touch sinister.

His entire appearance made Mike feel hopelessly plebeian and vaguely inadequate. He hated the feeling. For his standing, he counted as moderately well clad; but, of course, he could never compare himself with a Holmes. Or with the personal staff of a Holmes, for that matter.

Mr. Holmes greeted him with an aristocratic nod. “Dr. Stamford, how good of you to join us.”

_As if I had a choice_ , Mike thought morosely. He hated what he called being kidnapped in the middle of the street. The faint smile playing around the older man’s lips revealed that Mr. Holmes had an inkling of what he was thinking.

“Look, Mr. Holmes,” he said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than intended, but he was nervous, he couldn’t help it. “Why don’t we cut the niceties and go where you just tell me what do you want from me this time?”

It came out rather rude, he realised with a jolt, but Mr. Holmes didn’t seem to mind.

“What I want – no, what I _need_ from you, my dear doctor, is a favour,” he replied. “A personal favour, in fact, and not a small one. I assume you do remember my little brother?”

Mike nodded. He did have vague memories of a precocious child, all knees and elbows, with a mass of ginger curls covering his head and with almost frighteningly intense, near-colourless grey eyes. He also knew that the younger Holmes had a recurring cocaine problem and had already had several therapies (all in very expensive clinics) behind him. Hadn’t he been in one of those clinics for the last two years or so?

“Well, he seems to have recovered from his most recent relapse surprisingly well and has moved back to London,” Mr. Holmes continued. The police have agreed to work more directly with him in the future…”

_Of course they have. The police wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of the government_ , Mike thought cynically. Besides, the younger Holmes was fabled for his brilliant deductions that had already solved the one or other mysterious crime, despite his often questionable condition.

“…and I have arranged for him to use the labs at _St. Bart’s_ for his forensic experiments,” Mr. Holmes went on. Again, nothing surprising in _that_.

“What do you want from _me_ then?” Mike asked. “It seems you’ve got everything covered.”

“He doesn’t work well alone,” Mr. Holmes admitted with a sigh. “I need you to be his assistant if he needs one; his friend if he lets you. Otherwise, just keep an eye on him for me.”

“I thought that’s what surveillance systems are for,” Mike said. He didn’t like the idea of spying on somebody; especially not on a Holmes. They were unpredictable at best.

Mr. Holmes nodded. “And we intend to put _those_ to good use, of course. However, he can’t turn to a CCTV camera for help if he needs it. I want him to be able to turn to you, Dr. Stamford. He’s not one to make friends easy, and he can be very irritating, more often than not. I need someone who’d be patient with him, no matter what.”

Mike understood. He was a good-natured guy with endless patience – that he hadn’t murdered any of his students yet proved that – therefore he was probably the best choice to work with the young Holmes until he got used to have people around him again.

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Holmes,” he promised.

“Excellent,” Mr. Holmes knocked the handle of his umbrella on the plastic shield that separated the driver from the passengers. “Ianto, I think this is where Dr. Stamford will get off,” he offered Mike one of those elusive smiles. “It _is_ your street, isn’t it?”

~TBC~


	11. The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the idea is far-fetched. But I needed a halfways convincing idea why Thirteen/Sherlock would still be an addict. Sorry.

**CHAPTER 11 – AWAKENING**

He came to with what felt like the mother of all headaches; as if the worst hangover of his life, the peak of cocaine cold turkey and extreme nicotine cravings had been rolled and bundled into one neat package. His mouth was dry, his vision blurred and he felt like throwing up – only that his stomach was empty.

He didn’t really feel like filling it ever again, either.

He could hear muted voices talking somewhere far-away, like through a thick layer of voice. The cultured, accentuated, pretentious droning of his brother. The sharp, precise words spoken in a surprisingly soft female voice – his brother’s sexy secretary with the brains of the size of a small planet. And the lilting Welsh tones produced by Mycroft’s ninja butler, that annoying little sycophant, who – surprisingly enough – actually had the balls to stand up to Mycroft sometimes.

What were they doing here? Or, he corrected himself after stealing a look at his surroundings, what was _he_ doing here? He was obviously back in his old room, at the Holmes estate, although last time he checked he was in London, having a row with his depressingly stupid landlord.

How did he get here?

A face swam into his field of vision: pale skin, dark eyes, thin lips pressed together, an aquiline nose wrinkled in vague disgust... his brother.

“Sherlock?” that pedantic voice _almost_ sounded worried. “Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?”

He snorted, amused despite the blinding headache.

“Of course I know who you are, don’t be ridiculous, Mycroft! I seriously doubt that there’s another human being on this planet who’d be half as pompous and annoying as you are.”

“Well,” the lilting Welsh voice said somewhere outside his field of vision. “He seems to be all right, sir… and supremely himself.”

“Yes, it appears so, doesn’t it?” Mycroft answered in a pained tone. “He rarely gets drunk, but if he does he’s even more belligerent and unpleasant than usual.”

“I got drunk?” that would explain the headache, he supposed. Hangover was a bitch; which was the reason he avoided heavy drinking whenever he could. “Why?”

“You ran out of nicotine patches,” Mycroft replied simply. “You know what you’re like without them, especially since you gave up on your other… recreational activities. You ran out to get new ones, discovered an unexpected lead to one of the cold cases you’ve been working on for Detective Inspector Lestrade for quite some time, followed him to a pub, got drunk, got in a fight… the next thing I knew was I got a call from the police to collect you. Which Mr. Jones did for me.”

Well, that explained why he would hurt in places he didn’t even remember having. Must have been quite the fight.

“Oh, and your landlord called,” Mycroft added. “He told me in no uncertain terms that he’d had enough of your disgusting experiments and you wrecking the flat whenever you got bored, not to mention the frequent drug busts. He’d packed all your stuff in cardboard boxes and placed them in front of the door, the locks of which have been changed since then. Mr. Jones kindly fetched the boxes for you less than an hour ago.”

“Oh, the good old Jeeves,” he sneered. “Always so helpful. Always so reliable.”

“Someone has to be,” the butler replied with a bland smile. “And the name is _Jones_ , sir. Ianto Jones.”

“Whatever,” he waved impatiently. “Who cares? So does it mean that I haven’t got a place to live now? I seriously hope you don’t expect me to stay with you, Mycroft!”

“You can have the guest room in the London house – until you’ve found something suitable,” Mycroft replied. “It’s a temporary solution, or so I hope, for the sake of our mutual sanity. But I won’t have any of your questionable experiments in the house. Not even temporarily.”

“Terrific!” he scowled. “How am I supposed to work then? I _need_ to prove my theories, or I won’t be of any use for our highly incompetent police force; and then the criminal class will undoubtedly take over the country within the week.”

“I’ve made arrangements for you,” Mycroft told him. “You’ll be allowed to use the labs at _St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_ – as long as you don’t wreck them in any way. Dr. Stamford will have your own set of keys by the day after tomorrow.”

“Stamford?” he furrowed, trying to remember, but all his memory could come up was the vague image of a chubby little boy with glasses. He used to visit the estate with his mother sometimes. “You mean _Mike_ Stamford? He’s at _Bart’s_ now?”

“He’s been since graduation,” Mycroft sighed. “Really, brother dear, you should keep better tab on your friends.”

He gave his brother a cold look. “I don’t have friends.”

“Yeah, one wonders why,” the butler muttered.

“Oh, shut up, Jeeves, it isn’t your concern!” he snapped in annoyance.

“Jones,” the young Welshman corrected with an eyeroll; but he didn’t seem particularly insulted. One could have snapped at a brick wall and achieved the same results.

“Don’t annoy Mr. Jones, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned, “unless you want to live on decaf for the next month or so.”

“I don’t care!” he declared angrily. “Just leave me bloody alone, all of you!” and with a huff, he turned his back on them and pulled the duvet over his still aching head.

“Yes, I think at the moment that would be the wisest course of action,” he heard his brother’s voice; then the retreating footsteps and the closing of the door.

Good. He didn’t need any of them. He didn’t need _anyone_ , period. He was perfectly fine on his own.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“Was it really necessary, sir?” Ianto asked when they’d returned to Mycroft’s study. “Making him an addict, I mean.”

Mycroft sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. Even in human disguise, the brain of a Time Lord needs certain complicated chemicals to function properly. Chemicals that it can’t produce without stimulants. Nicotine – and sadly, also cocaine – _are_ such stimulants, and while we’ll try to keep him away from the latter, we’ll have to allow him some indulgence in the former, to keep his brain chemically balanced.”

“Martha didn’t say anything about such things from the last time he was human,” Ianto frowned.

“Last time he was human for a couple of months only,” Mycroft explained. “These are long-term effects. They only emerge if we spend _years_ in a human form. Most unpleasant effects, I must admit.”

“I see,” Ianto said after a lengthy pause. “Does this explain _your_ smoking habit, sir?”

Mycroft gave him a sickly smile. “I always knew you were brilliant, Ianto. Yes, it does.”

“Well, sir, in that case we’ll have to see that there are nicotine patches available all the time,” Ianto added the new item to his mental inventory list. “Coffee?” he then asked.

“Dying for,” his boss replied, and life returned to its normal routine.

Or what counted as _normal_ for the Holmes household anyway.

~The End - for now~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the first installment. The story will be continued in "The Resident Patient".


End file.
